I gathered a stack of newspapers, and the weird domesticness of the situation suddenly hit me. I blinked back tears, remembering how I’d done the same kind of stuff at home, with Dad, and how I’d grumbled about it and made him remind me five times and stuff. Now, what I wouldn’t give to be at home with Dad nagging me! I would be the perfect daughter if I could only have another chance. I gulped, thinking maybe it was time to go cry on my bed for a while.
“Excuse me.”
I whirled, sniffing and brushing my hand across my eyes. I hadn’t heard Richard come up behind me. I closed the dishwasher door. “What?” I said, feeling unnerved.
“Axelle sent me down for matches,” he explained in a husky, un-kid-like voice, stepping past me into the narrow kitchen. He was slender but wiry, with defined muscles. He was wearing black motorcycle boots.
“Don’t you—?” I began, and he glanced up at me. I could see that even though he was young, he would probably be really good-looking when he grew up. If he lost the face jewelry. “Don’t you think you’re a little young for that?” I waved my hand toward the hidden stairway. Richard looked at me, expressionless. “I mean—do your folks know where you are? Don’t you worry about getting in trouble or having it lead to bigger stuff that could actually really be dangerous?”
Richard picked up the box of matches. “I’m an orphan, honey,” he said, with a funny little smile. “And it’s not what you think, upstairs. You’ll find out.”
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. “I mean, it’s not too late to quit,” I said, feeling more and more unsure.
He did smile then, showing a hint of the man he would become in a couple of years. “It’s way too late to quit,” he said, and gave a little laugh, like there was a private joke somewhere. He left me and went back through the door, and feeling completely weirded out, I glanced absently at the stack of newspapers.
Time to register for school, those attending Orleans Parish public schools, I read. I had to move Minou’s tail to finish the headline. School started on August 26, barely three weeks away. It listed a web site where you could register online.
“Oh, Thais,” said Axelle, coming into the kitchen. She rummaged in the cupboards and pulled out a box of salt. “Listen, don’t go anywhere—we’ll be done in a while and then we’re going out to dinner.”
I nodded. We always went out to dinner. “Um, I have to register for school.”
Axelle looked at me blankly.
I tapped the paper. “It says it’s time to register if you’re going to public school. Which I assume I am.”
She seemed to recover and said, “Well, you don’t have to go if you don’t want. You’ve probably gone enough, right?”
Now I stared at her, her beautiful face that never seemed to show lack of sleep or hangovers or anything else, the black eyes that had no pupils. “I haven’t graduated high school,” I said slowly, as if I were explaining something to a child. “I have one more year.”
“Well, what’s one year?” she asked, shrugging. “I bet you know everything you need to know. Why don’t you just hang out, relax?”
My mouth dropped open. “If I don’t graduate high school, I won’t be able to go to college.”
“You mean you’d sign up for four more years?” She looked appalled.
“How am I going to get a job?” Or did I not need one, here on Planet Unreality?
Now she looked downright shocked. “Job?”
Okay. I was getting nowhere. I could see that. Thanks, Dad, I thought, tasting bitterness in the back of my throat. You sure can pick ’em. I took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ll take care of it,” I said calmly. “I’m going to school, and I’ll register myself. I’ll let you know what happens.”
Axelle looked like she was trying to think up a good argument but couldn’t come up with anything. “Well, if that’s what you want to do,” she said reluctantly.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay.” She sighed heavily, as if she couldn’t believe Michel Allard’s child could be so incredibly unreasonable. I picked up the newspaper and headed back into my room, where I carefully shut the door. Then I lay down on my bed, put a pillow over my face, and howled.
So Much Has Changed
“C’est impossible,” Daedalus muttered in disgust. He banged his fist down on the hood of the car. “C’est impossible!”
“Hey!” said Axelle. “La voiture, c’est à moi!” She carefully examined the hood of her pink Cadillac.
Daedalus folded his arms across his chest and joined Richard and Jules, who were leaning against the side of Axelle’s car, staring across the street. Axelle lit a cigarette.
Jules made a face. “Must you smoke even here?”
“Yes,” Axelle said evenly. “Are you going to lecture me about the health disadvantages?”
Richard chuckled, and Jules looked away.
“It’s unpleasant is all,” he said.
“Then stand downwind,” said Axelle.
“Stop it, you two,” said Daedalus. “We can’t start arguing among ourselves. Now, more than ever, we have to stand together.”
“Has Sophie come yet?” Axelle asked.
“I think she and Manon are coming tomorrow,” said Daedalus. He let out a breath and looked across the street, still unbelieving. “This is the place?” he asked for the fifth time.
“It’s the place,” Jules said dispiritedly. “It has to be.”
The four of them stood in a line against the car. Across the street, where they had expected to find thick woods and swamps as far as the eye could see, there was instead a huge Wal-Mart Supercenter. And a huge parking lot. And other stores in a line next to it.
“When’s the last time anyone was here?” Daedalus asked.
They thought, shrugged.
“Long time,” Axelle said at last. “Obviously.”
“Hang on.” Richard leaned into the open window of the car and pulled out their old map. He took the recent map from Daedalus and spread them both out on the hood of the car. “Okay, here’s New Orleans,” he said, pointing to the city within the crescent bend of the river. “And this is about where we are.” He traced a slender finger down a blue highway line, south-southwest of New Orleans.
“They’re two completely different maps,” said Axelle.
Daedalus saw what she meant. “What’s the date on that first map?”
“Uh, 1843,” Richard said, finding the date in one corner.
“And this is a current map,” Daedalus clarified. “Clearly, the older map is wildly inaccurate—it’s not a satellite-data topographical map. The same features don’t even appear on both. Look, Lac Méchant, Lac Penchant. This one is called Grand Barataria, and now it’s called, uh, Lake Salvador. I think.” He squinted at the two maps, then glanced up and saw that this afternoon’s quick, heavy thunderstorm was on its way.
“Crap,” Axelle said.
“But this is the map we always used,” Jules said.
“But it’s been a long time,” Richard pointed out. “Even the actual courses of the rivers have changed. The coastline has changed a lot. With every hurricane that’s hit Louisiana, some aspect of the landscape changed.”
“Now what?” Jules asked, frustration in his voice. “This is a major point.”
“Yes, Jules, we know,” Daedalus said, hearing himself sound testy. He tried to dampen his irritation. They needed to pull together, to work as one. He reached out and put a hand on Jules’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, old friend. I’m upset. But this is only a temporary setback, I’m sure. We’ll do more research. We’ll look at maps from different years and compare them. It will show us how the landmarks have changed. From that we can extrapolate where we need to be looking. It will take time, but we can do it.”
“We only have a little time,” Jules said.
Again Daedalus squelched his temper. “We have time enough,” he said, trying to sound both certain and reassuring. “We’ll get started
tonight.” He looked over at Richard, who’d been quiet. That handsome child’s face, those old, old eyes. Richard met his gaze and nodded. Daedalus got into the car just as the first big raindrops hit the windshield. They had to pull this off. This was their only chance. Who knew if they would ever have another?
Clio
Half an hour late. That seemed about right. If he was still here, he was serious and had staying power; if he was gone, then good riddance.
(Actually, if he was gone, I would track him down like a dog.)
We were supposed to meet at Amadeo’s at nine. It was nine thirty, and the place was starting to fill up. I looked at the bouncer when I went in, and he automatically started to card me.
You don’t want to do that, I thought, sending him a quick distraction spell. Just then, something at the back of the bar caught his eye, and he turned, striding through the crowd like a bull through a field of wheat.
I slipped inside and smiled as I saw some regulars. I could feel admiring looks from people and hoped Andre appreciated the skintight white jeans and tie-dyed halter. I flipped my hair back, looking unconcerned, and slowly examined the patrons.
I felt him before I saw him. All of a sudden, my skin tingled, as if someone had shocked me with static. The next moment, a warm hand was on my bare back, and when I turned, I was practically in his arms.
“You’re late,” he said, looking into my eyes until I felt breathless.
“I’m here now.”
“Yes. What do you want to drink?” Expertly he wove us through the crowd until we could stand at the bar to order. Nothing too crass or too childish. “A margarita,” I said. “No salt.”
Five minutes later we had made our way into Amadeo’s back room, where a small stage filled one end. Sometimes on weekends they had live bands, but it was a weeknight, and instead people were clustered around small tables and clumped onto the easy chairs and small couches scattered around the room. It was very dark, and the walls were covered with flocked red wallpaper so kitschy it was in again.
Andre led me to a battered purple love seat that was already occupied by a couple of college guys. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, but somehow they suddenly got the urge to get refills on their drafts.
I sank down first, taking Andre’s hand and pulling him down next me. He smiled slightly and didn’t resist; then he was on the love seat and with no hesitation kept coming at me until our mouths were touching, our eyes wide open. I held my right hand still over the back of the love seat so I wouldn’t spill my drink, but the rest of me leaned against Andre, wanting to sink into him, eat him up, melt our bodies together.
Minutes later one of us pulled back—I don’t know who. I took a sip of my drink, feeling stunned and hot and nervous and very, very turned on. I glanced uncertainly at him, and he looked like everything I felt.
“What do you have?” I asked, nodding toward his drink.
“Seven-Up,” he said, fishing the maraschino cherry out with long, graceful fingers. He held it out to me and I went for it, loving the burst of candied over-sweetness in my mouth. When I could talk, I said, “Oh, sure, get the girl drunk while you stay totally in control.” Which, to tell you the truth, did not seem like a good situation for me to be in. I mean, I was practically blind with lust for Andre, but I still had one or possibly two wits about me.
Andre gave me a crooked smile and I silenced an involuntary whimper. “Number one,” he said softly in his accented voice, “I don’t think you would need to be drunk, and number two, I’m not drinking, but somehow I feel I’ve lost control anyway.”
Okay, I was in love. And this is how sappy it was: I was totally, completely, one hundred percent happy and content to be sitting on that lumpy love seat in that crowded bar, drinking my drink and just staring into his dark blue eyes. I wanted for nothing, needed nothing, had to go nowhere. I could sit there and feast my eyes on him till the end of time.
I looked at him thoughtfully, running one finger around the edge of my glass. “No, I wouldn’t have to be drunk,” I agreed shakily. I leaned back against the side of the love seat and stretched my legs across his lap. My bare feet felt the warmth of his hard thigh through his black jeans, and I pressed them down experimentally. He had muscles.
“Tell me about yourself,” I said, pushing my hair back. I played with the straw in my glass and smiled. “Where have you been all my life?”
He smiled too, getting the corny reference. Despite everything, I remembered how Racey had felt about him, and I owed it to her—and to myself—to find out a little bit about him before, say, we got married.
“Andre what?” I prompted, when he didn’t answer. “Are you still in school? Where do you live?”
“Andre Martin,” he said, giving his last name the French pronunciation: Mar-taihn. I blinked. “I’m taking a year off, out of university, to work for my uncle’s law firm here. As a paralegal. I have my own apartment in the Quarter.” His warm hands slid under my jeans and massaged my calves. It made my brain feel like mush, or maybe that was because I had drained my large margarita. “Not far from here,” he volunteered, smiling wickedly. I put the glass down on the little table next to the love seat.
“Andre Martin?” I said, making sure.
“Yes.”
I felt like I’d been looking at his face my whole life. “That’s so weird,” I said, feeling distinctly fuzzy-headed. “That’s my name too. Clio Martin. Isn’t that weird?”
He looked amused, then considered it. “Martin is not so unusual a name,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said. “It just seemed funny—having the same last name.” My head was suddenly very heavy; I dropped it back over the arm of the love seat. Involuntarily I moaned at the strength of Andre’s fingers rubbing my legs.
He laughed, then swung my legs over the side again, which pulled me up next to him. He put his arms around me and kissed me.
Things after that were a little blurry. I know he asked me to go home with him, and, miracle of miracles, I said no. I couldn’t make it too easy for him. I know we kissed and made out and held each other so tightly that at one point my top had his shirt’s button impressions on it, which struck us both as really funny.
I know I wanted another margarita and instead received a 7-Up, which made me fall even more in love with him. I could trust him.
And I know that by the time we finally said goodbye, he walked me to my car and made sure I was straight enough to drive, which I truly was—especially since I did a silent dissipation spell as soon as I was behind the wheel. Tonight’s alcohol would dampen my abilities tomorrow, but right now the magick sang through my veins. Losing every bit of the margarita’s effect was sad, but I also knew if I drove impaired and killed myself, my grandmother would pull me back from the dead so she could kill me all over again.
I rolled down my window, the engine of my battered little Camry humming.
“I had a good time tonight,” I said. Major understatement.
He brushed his fingers along my cheek, rubbing his thumb over my birthmark. “So did I,” he said seriously, then leaned in the window and kissed me long and hard. “It’s okay if I call you?” I had given him my cell phone number.
“Yes,” I said, surpassing the first understatement.
“Drive carefully.” His look made me feel like we were already joined, one, forever.
I nodded, put the car in gear, and pulled out. He was in my rearview mirror until I turned the corner.
Seed of life, I nourish you
I give you room to grow
I give you friends to grow with
The sun and rain are all for you
Your leaves unfurl, your budding show
To all I am your gardensmith.
I knew better than to roll my eyes or act impatient. Nan always said little spells when she planted things, and of course her garden, the whole yard, was the most perfectly balanced, beautiful garden for blocks. Yet there was a part of me tha
t was thinking, It’s just okra.
She patted the earth down firmly around the okra seed, a little smile on her face. She looked perfectly calm, at ease. I was dying. It was a thousand degrees outside, and my T-shirt was already damp with sweat. I felt totally gross. At least no one but Nan would see me like this.
Nan looked up at me in that way that felt like she was seeing right through my eyes into the back of my skull. “Not your cup of tea, is it?” she asked with humor.
I showed her my dirty, broken fingernails and the blister beginning on my thumb. She laughed.
“Thank you for your sympathy,” I muttered.
“How are you going to be a witch without a garden?” she asked.
“I’ll hire someone,” I said.
“Will you hire someone to study for you?” she asked, more seriously. “Or maybe you should hire someone to do your drinking for you.”
I looked up in alarm. “I haven’t been drinking.”
She gave me an “oh, come on” face. “Clio—your magick is very strong.” She brushed my damp hair off my cheek. “It was strong in your mother also. But she died before she could come into her full power.” Her eyes had a faraway, sad look in them. “I want to see you come into your full power. Unfortunately, the only way to get there is actually to study, to learn, to practice. The only way to practice meaningfully is to not have dulled your senses. You can be a strong witch or you can be a weak witch. It’s up to you.”
“It’s summertime,” I said, hating how whiny and childish I sounded. “I want to have fun.”
“All right, have fun,” she said. “But you’ll be eighteen in November. And I’m telling you now, you’re nowhere near ready for your rite of ascension.”
Now she had my full and undivided attention. “What? Really? I didn’t know it was that bad.”
She nodded, looking sad and wise and somehow older than usual. “It’s that bad, honey. If you work your butt off, you might be able to pass it. Or you can wait a year, when you turn nineteen.”